


showers me in bruises

by sugarboat



Series: Anon Prompt Writing [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Biting, Jealousy, M/M, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26445772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Jon is surrounded by monsters.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael | The Distortion/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Anon Prompt Writing [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889935
Comments: 11
Kudos: 109





	showers me in bruises

**Author's Note:**

> 100 words of envying monsters

“Oh, Archivist,” Michael cooed, and Jon suppressed a sigh, setting his pen to the side and resigning himself to the fact that he just was not going to get any work done today. “You’ve been injured.”

He felt the tips of its fingers brush across his neck. A gesture that had his gut spasming in fear, the hairs on the back of his neck forcefully raised. It was like being pet with a scalpel. Irate, thoughtless with it, Jon’s first instinct was to slap its hand away, which he did, flinching back when the motion ended in the skin across his fingers splitting open.

“Christ,” he complained, cradling his palm to his chest. Michael laughed. “I have been _now_.”

“That was unwise.” Did it have to sound so pleased with itself?

“Yes, thank you, Michael.”

Its fingers were still on his neck. Tracing across a bruise that was in the process of fading, located just below the hinge of his jaw. Jon knew exactly where it was. The memory of it being made was still fresh in his mind, sharp and tactile, the heat of another person pressed flush to his chest, his hands scrambling against the wall behind him. Elias’ hands tilting his head to the side. Elias’ breath warm and wet against him, followed by Elias’ mouth, Elias’ teeth.

Followed by a big, ugly bruise that the bastard had the gall to look smug about later. The sharpened knife press of Michael’s fingers was circling it, as if gauging its width and length. Preparing to slice it out, like a fruit with an imperfection, and Jon hadn’t exactly needed that mental imagery, thanks though.

“You are so prone to… injurious behavior,” Michael sighed.

Jon held himself very still as Michael’s touch trailed downwards, obliquely following the thick artery Jon knew was nestled somewhere in there, close to his skin. He couldn’t help the full body flinch inspired by Michael tapping at the hollow of his throat – it earned him another laugh, which he repaid in kind with another glare – and then Michael dragged its fingers upwards, gentle pressure against the bottom of his jaw.

Michael’s index finger, if it could be called such, was pressed into the soft space behind the hook of his jawbone. It made Jon acutely aware of how his skin and muscle flexed when he swallowed. The image of its finger pushing up, and up, through rending tissue, kept playing in his mind.

“Are you frightened, Archivist?” it asked him quietly. Jon rolled his eyes.

“Obviously. Your hands are knives.”

“That is not entirely inaccurate,” it agreed.

Jon thought it might be smiling at him, when it could be bothered to have anything so blasé as a mouth. Or a face. Looking at Michael gave the general impression of humanity – he remembered Sasha’s description, blond hair and soft features, like those old paintings of saints and the like. But it seemed to slip, sometimes, hurting his eyes. A pressure against the backs of them when the image before him shifted, the silhouette longer suddenly, sharper, flatter, thinner, flowing in strange directions.

Its hands were massive, jagged things. Jon felt a tremble in his own that made him press them hard to the armrests, his palms damp with sweat and blood. So many pointed angles aimed right at his throat, and he let it tilt his head to the side, feeling some sense of vertigo and déjà vu as well.

“Michael,” he said. In warning, if he were ever asked, but there was really no one in his life that would ask.

“Yes, Archivist?” it was leaning down towards him. It didn’t bend so much as slump, its spine sinuous, almost snakelike.

“What- ah, what are you doing?”

It laughed again. So close to him, the sound was jarring. Jon had his doubts the proximity had actually changed anything.

“I had thought that would be obvious,” it said. “But you do so often miss the obvious, don’t you, Archivist?”

“I do _not_ -”

Jon’s retort was lost in a gasp, throat tight, as Michael brushed what he thought passed for lips against his neck. Its skin – was that skin? – was feverishly hot, and felt wrong somehow, a texture that was close to flesh but not quite. A memory of a memory of flesh. Something long and wet dragged over his skin, over that damn mark. Whatever liquid Michael’s tongue was coated in stung as it lapped at him.

“Are you frightened?” Michael asked him again. Its tongue was still against his neck, somehow.

“Yes.”

His answer was quiet, barely able to force through the constriction of his muscles. There wasn’t a good place to touch Michael in turn, to shove it away – it looked human and then it didn’t, it had smooth surfaces and then it didn’t. He wrapped a hand around its wrist, though when it flickered, it really didn’t look like a wrist at all.

Its lips pressed to his skin again. Jon closed his eyes, felt its mouth part against him. Warm and wet, a mouth, a tongue, and then teeth. The touch jolted down his spine, another heat that stung from the inside, seared him sweetly.

There was blood on its mouth when it smiled at him next. Jon grimaced, his hand clapped over his neck, feeling warm, wet- blood leak between his fingers. A door in his office opened and closed, and as if the universe hated him so much, there was a knock at his actual door.

“Jon,” Elias said when he came in, and monsters, bloody monsters, Jon was surrounded by them. “Do you have a moment? We need to talk.”

“Of course we do.”


End file.
